


a world of our own

by ladyrose (orphan_account)



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fishing, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Other, Regret, Sad but...warm, Self Confidence Issues, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 13:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ladyrose
Summary: Jack reminisces on life before. John is full of regrets.He goes to the one person he knows will understand.





	a world of our own

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS
> 
> This has major spoilers.
> 
> \- 
> 
> My tumblr: @morgan-arthur

They’re standing just off the shore in the shallow end of a glass still lake, and he notices with a odd feeling he can’t place that they’re both knee deep, and it’s as he’s giving a gentle tug to his line that he asks, where’d you learn to do that?

Jack drags his eyes away from the water with the half faraway, half thoughtful look that screams Abigail and quirks his eyebrow curiously in a way that is all John.

“Learn what?”

And he was going to say—

 _Well_...

But he already knows. And he already knows _who_. And that tug somewhere between his ribs, dangerously close to his heart that pulled painfully those few months after tugs again. Gently. A warning that it’s still there. That it probably always will be.

“I was gonna say ‘how to fish’ but,” John shrugs, focusing on his own line. “I remember now.”

“Oh. Yeah. Uncle Arthur.”

They fall into a silence, the cacophony of a flock of geese above them, flying south and disappearing over the scarlet and yellow tree tops the only sound. And John doesn’t want to ask the inevitable. What’s been worrying him just below his skin, and—Abigail confesses one night—under hers _too_ , but it’s out before he can stop it.

“Do you remember much of that...” he clears his throat, “Of anyone?”

“A bit. Here and there. I remember,” and here he breaks into a smile, “I remember one time, Uncle Arthur and I were running an errand for mama. We were in that town. The one by the cliffs...”

“Blackwater?”

“Yes. Yes, maybe it was that one. The one we had to leave from really fast. Well, we were about to cross the street and we—well Uncle Arthur saw him first. This man was sitting across the street in this door threshold and he had a cup like he was begging but he _wasn’t_. He was quiet.”

 _This is the most he’s talked to me about anything,_ comes the thought, like a pulled punch. He ignores it and nods along, dutifully.

“Uncle Arthur had got out a quarter and he handed me one and he didn’t say anything, but we cross the street and he put it in the man’s cup.” Jack continues. “Man says, ‘Thank you, mister. Bless you.’ So I did the same and he says, ‘Thank you, son. Bless you.’ And I...I think he taught me a lot without saying much. He taught me how to draw and practice my cursive. He gave me a candy one morning—before breakfast—because he knew I had a bad dream the night before. And he didn’t even say he knew, he just...He’s good.”

Part of John wants to ask Jack what it was that _he_ taught him. What it was he remembers about _himself_. And it hits him like a train.

_What did he remember about his son?_

He remembered when he only came to his hip. He remembered how he fell in love with every animal, rabid or otherwise, that found its way through camp, much to John’s chagrin.

He remembers places, and the wild, free feeling of riding with Charles and Arthur. He remembers target practice with Javier, and friendly gossip with Bill. He could tell you what time Lenny usually fell asleep and how Dutch preferred his eggs, but Jack?

His Jack?

It was only right that Jack remembered the good. John would have it no other way.

 _And it was also right_ , came that voice he tried to drown under his blanket every night when sleep wouldn’t come, _that you had no place in them._

“Where is he, anyway?” Jack asks, breaking him from his thoughts. “Uncle Arthur, I mean?”

“He...” John pauses, chewing on his lip. “Well, y’know, I was going to visit him soon.”

“Really? Can I come?”

“Maybe another time,” John smiles. “You want me to tell him you said ‘hello?’”

Jack nods, that smile returning. “Tell him I miss him, too. And to visit when he can.”

That tug again. John is nodding before the sentence is even complete.

“I’ll tell him.”

And he keeps his word. It’s a three days ride out, long enough to decide what he wants to tell him. Because even though Arthur is—

John shudders, shaking his head against _that_.

He’d call him a fool.

He’d call him all sorts of names for it, but talking to him always made John feel as though he were under scrutiny. Like he were twelve again and Arthur, leaning against a tree and chewing on the end of a cigar was gearing up to gleefully poke holes through what he felt confident was a decent plan.

 _Johnny Marston_. A chuckle. A real one. Face not yet lined by age and stress. _Please tell me you’ve got somethin’ better than that._

He _did_ use to write what he wanted to say before he made these visits. But that suddenly seems too formal.

Arthur hated formality.

He arrives at the valley a little before dawn. A fog settling below and shadows thrown long from the mountains. He watches a moment. Herding together those emotions that threaten to run loose, and then pulling the cigar from his pocket, bends to set it in front of the cross.

 _Well, Arthur. Now this_. He stoops, brushing aside leaves. _Wasn’t always certain there’d be something more for me out there. Not after that. Not like this. But I always knew you’d be somewhere. No where far. Just somewhere, I think. Anywhere in the world._

He swallows and settles back in a crouch, dusting the dirt from his hands on his pants leg. _But now I’m here and you’re far away. What was it, Dutch used to say? In French? Such is life. Abby’s good. I’m good, too, for the most part. Charles came through about a month back and Sadie wrote. They’re doing fine for themselves._

_Jack says hi. He grew like a weed. Took him fishing a couple days ago and he’s almost as tall as me now. It’s...unsettling and I can’t really say why._

_He misses you. He wants you to visit. I couldn’t tell him. He has a lot of good memories with you. You’d be proud..._

_I’m trying to be better. A better father, a better husband. I’m trying really hard. I was lost back then, and I’m afr—_

_I don’t want it to be too late._

_You’d tell me to quit my moping, or something. Appreciate what I have. But sometimes I don’t know what to do. You would._

_You always did._

_I miss you too.  
_

— — —

_He’s not even past the fence and Jack is running out to greet him.  
_

_He’s asking questions a mile a minute, all breathless energy and his hands still dusted in flour from where he most assuredly abandoned his mother in the house the moment he saw his father.  
_

_How is he? Did you have a good time?_  
Mama and I saw the biggest stag at the tree line, the biggest antlers you’d ever seen. And it stayed for almost a half hour. Can you believe it?

_John’s hand finds his back, pulling him into a half hug._

_Awkward, but right._

_Abigail half steps out of the front door, a smile on her face and hands tucking away—and thoroughly flouring—inky strands of hair that fell from her bun._

_And John decides he’s never seen her so beautiful._

_Blowing her a kiss, he decides that this alone must be the closest he could get to heaven.  
_

_Yes, Jack.  
_

_I’d believe it._


End file.
